


Prayer

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Javert Lives, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 01:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11430729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Javert and Valjean learn to live together. Or: how Javert learned to pray.





	Prayer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erinaconyx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinaconyx/gifts).



July had arrived with sweltering heat, the windows of the small house open to the evening breeze as soon as the sun sunk below the horizon, and shutters and curtains drawn against the sun during the day.

The road was quiet. It was not too far from the Marais, although the house that stood in the little garden was far humbler than the buildings of that quarter. The study of this small building had been turned into a second bedroom, although even now, Valjean was surprised that Javert should have chosen to share a home with him.

Valjean could not have remained in the Rue Plumet. The house was too large for him, and the thought of Cosette spending her money on him, when she should spend it on a carriage and a box at the theatre instead, was too painful to bear.

In the end, this little house had been a compromise Valjean had only reluctantly agreed to—but now, he found that he had come to appreciate this place, for it allowed him to keep visiting Cosette every day, and the heat was easier to bear in the shade of his small garden.

A creak made him flinch, but when he looked up, some of the old panic never having left him, he relaxed when he found the familiar figure of Javert standing at the water pump in the garden. The pump creaked again as Javert filled a bucket with cold water.

“It’s too hot,” Javert said irritably when Valjean joined him. “It’s unnatural; has it ever been like this before?”

“Every summer,” Valjean said calmly, biting back a smile when Javert scoffed.

Javert, usually so imposing, looked bedraggled. Strands of his hair were sticking to sweaty skin. His face was gleaming, his nose reddened from too much sun, and his shirt sticking to his chest.

“The deuce take the summer,” Javert muttered. Ten he reached into the bucket, filling his palms with cold water which he splashed into his face. A moment later he sputtered and shook his head so that drops of water were flying everywhere, like a dog who was shaking himself off.

Earlier, Javert had taken off his cravat and opened the collar of his shirt, and there, on his nape, Valjean could see droplets of sweat gleaming. For some reason, he could not look away.

***

“It’s too hot,” Javert said again. He sounded irritable.

It was a criticism this time, but Valjean did not react. Instead, he continued to push his shoulder against a boulder that refused to budge.

His shoulder ached. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. But at last, the rock moved just the tiniest fraction. Valjean increased his efforts and a moment later, the stone came loose from the embrace of the earth and the roots that had clung to it for so long.

“There,” Valjean said, wiping the sweat from his brow, “there, you see? It will grow easier now.”

He nodded towards the apple tree that grew close to the wall surrounding their garden, roots no longer crushed by the stone.

“And it couldn’t have waited until a day less hot?” Javert demanded.

Instead of an answer, Valjean rolled his shoulder, ignoring the dull ache as he pushed against the boulder once more, not ceasing his work until the rock rested against the wall, the apple tree free to grow as it pleased once more. When he turned, an exhausted smile on his face, Javert was gone.

Perplexed, Valjean turned, the smile slowly vanishing from his lips, but Javert remained nowhere to be seen. At last, quiet and puzzled, Valjean moved towards the pump to wash the dirt from his face.

***

“Too hot,” Javert said irritably, glaring at his cup of coffee while Valjean took a careful sip from his own cup. “I don’t see how you can drink it this way. You’ll scald yourself.”

Valjean could have said a lot of things in response: how a hot cup of coffee was something that had been unattainable luxury for most of his life. How no cup of coffee served to the mayor had ever tasted as good as the coffee he and Cosette had once shared in the mornings, her presence warming his old heart in a way that had nothing to do with the coffee. How it was getting chilly in the mornings now, with autumn arriving, and the heat was pleasant.

Instead, he simply smiled, his eyes resting on Javert with near puzzlement. Perhaps Valjean should be used to Javert by now, but even the most ordinary things seemed extraordinary when shared with Javert, as though some strange twist of fate had brought him to share his house with a feral tiger.

***

With the changing season, Javert found a new target for his severe glances and frowns of irritation. The falling leaves were a nuisance, he declared, glaring impatiently as Valjean raked them up, only for a sudden gust of wind to carry half of them away once more.

Still, in the evenings, Javert would sit quietly enough, pretending to listen to what Valjean read.

Once, without doubt exhausted from a long day, he fell asleep on the sofa, his head tilting back against a cushion, his hand resting against Valjean’s arm.

There it remained all evening and Valjean, feeling strangely warmed by the gentle weight, could not focus on the novel anymore, even though Javert slept for an hour there by his side.

***

“It’s too cold,” Javert said, staring out of the window in frustration.

Valjean, wrapped in a heavy blanket, had to smile. “It’s winter,” he said mildly. “And we have firewood enough. Food, too, and wine.”

_We should be grateful._

He did not say it out loud, but surely Javert remembered winters in Toulon. And then, further back, entirely forgotten but for some dim, brief impressions of a gnawing hunger and fingers and toes that ached with the cold, there were the memories of deprivation before the bagne.

Valjean had a house now. A house with sturdy walls that kept out the cold, an oven and wood enough to go day and night, warm blankets and enough food to last them a week, even though the snow surely would not stay that long.

And, perhaps most wondrous of all, he had a companion to share his solitude.

Valjean was grateful for that, too, he realized with sudden wonder. Did Javert know that?

The look Javert gave him was unreadable. Still, it lingered on him for a long moment, filling him with an even stranger warmth, before Javert’s jaw tightened.

“And I suppose you want me to kneel down with you and give thanks to God,” Javert said.

Valjean chanced another smile. “Would it be such a hardship?”

Javert huffed, once again refusing to answer. He did not come to kneel by Valjean’s side—but he also did not leave the room. Perhaps that would have to be enough.

***

In the winter, even though Javert insisted on a fire burning in their stove night and day, Valjean fell ill.

It surprised him. He had been a healthy man all of his life, and so, when his head began to ache and his limbs grew heavy, he ignored the demands of his body—until the next day, when a fever shook him and his chest rattled when he breathed.

“Why did you not tell me?” Javert demanded, pressing Valjean back into the bed. Javert’s brow was creased with worry, and despite his frown, his hands were very gentle as he covered Valjean with the blanket.

“It’s nothing.” Valjean forced a smile onto his face—until another cough interrupted him.

“So I see,” Javert muttered, the worry in his voice hurting more than Valjean liked to admit.

“I have sent for your daughter, and for a doctor,” Javert continued, and when Valjean tried to sit up in protest, he was once more pressed down, Javert’s hands still gentle, but firm. “Now try to sleep. I’ll wake you when they arrive.”

Valjean’s head ached so much that despite his protest, he was glad to be able to close his eyes. He felt too hot, all of his limbs aching. 

When he opened his eyes again, Cosette was by his bed, looking worried. By her side stood a stranger—the doctor, Valjean realized when the man came forward to take his pulse.

Valjean was cold, so cold that his bones ached and he could not get comfortable no matter how he shifted. The room spun before his eyes when he lifted his head to swallow the concoction the doctor gave him, but when he opened his eyes again, the stranger was gone. Now Cosette’s face was pressed against his, and despite the misery of his condition, joy welled up in Valjean.

“You need to sleep, father,” she said firmly. “You’ll be better tomorrow. The doctor says it’s just a cold, but you still need to rest.”

Valjean smiled and tried to tell her that he was already feeling better—surely there was no reason for Cosette to stay. But she hushed him, and he gladly obeyed, her hand still on his when he fell asleep once more.

Sometime during the night, Valjean woke. He was so cold that his teeth were chattering. His shirt was wet with sweat, and when he lifted his head, the room began to spin.

There was a fire roaring in the fireplace, the flames lighting the room despite the drawn curtains. There was a hand still covering his own—it was a different hand, although this hand, too, was familiar to him.

“Javert.” The word escaped as a groan, but Javert immediately sat up. Had he slept here by his side all night?

Valjean sought to chide him, but he was too weak to speak. And then, selfish though it might be, Valjean was glad that he was not alone.

“Hush.” Javert’s hand was pressed to his forehead. A heartbeat later, Javert muttered, “The fever’s risen. Come, let’s get you out of that shirt.”

Valjean felt hands helping him to sit up. A moment later, the sweat-soaked shirt was stripped from him, and he shivered violently. Despite the roaring fire, the room felt bitterly cold. When Javert fetched a new shirt and helped him settle down once more, Valjean was grateful for the warm blanket, and even more grateful for the weight of Javert by his side.

A moment later, Javert fed him another spoonful of a bitter concoction. After that, the aching cold receded a little, and finally the heavy hands of sleep dragged him under once more.

The next time he woke, it was still dark. Valjean’s head felt much clearer; he was no longer cold, and although he still felt exhausted, the room was no longer spinning before his eyes.

Everything was quiet. The fire was still burning; Javert must have added another log while Valjean slept.

When Valjean turned his head, he was met by an unexpected sight: Javert was no longer sitting by his side, nor had he taken to the armchair to sleep.

Instead, Javert was on his knees in front of the bed, his head bent in exhaustion, his hands clasped in prayer, right there on the white sheets, so close that Valjean need only reach out to touch them.

For a long moment, Valjean watched Javert instead. The firelight was reflecting on Javert’s hair, giving the dark strands the gleam of auburn. Everything was silent.

Then Valjean reached out. Gently, he covered Javert’s hands with his own. When Javert looked up, at first shocked, then with such disbelieving relief that it made Valjean’s heart ache, Valjean gave him a tired smile.

He did not take his hands away, and Javert did not stir, his eyes wide and unguarded. There, in the darkness of the night, with the house quiet and the flickering fire in front of them, they prayed together for a moment, and Valjean felt his heart filled by a joy he had not expected to know again after Cosette left.

At last, Javert bent his head, and Valjean, stunned, could feel the softness of his lips against his knuckles. Warmth spread where Javert kissed him. Somewhere deep within Valjean, something began to unfurl. They had never touched like this before, and although he had never dared to put a name to the strange contentment that Javert’s presence in their home had begun to bring him, he thought that he now knew what it was.

That, too, was a prayer. And perhaps Javert, too, had prayed in his own way, long before he had come to join Valjean tonight.

“You should go back to sleep,” Javert whispered, but there was no embarrassment in his eyes.

Valjean’s heart gave a little jolt. Everything still seemed strangely clear and easy to him, as though the fever had burned away some of what had always seemed to stand between them.

“Only if you stay.” Valjean tightened his hand around Javert’s.

“I’ll stay. Of course I’ll stay,” Javert murmured.

Then there was the sensation of lips against his skin once more. As Valjean allowed his dreams to claim him, a smile spread across his face. The last thing he felt before he sank back into sleep was Javert’s thumb drawing a gentle circle against his palm, and although Javert spoke no words, the grace of prayer filled Valjean until he felt his heart overflowing with it.


End file.
